


Case In Point

by kissingandcrying



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Time, M/M, arrested scamander, too many wee beasties :3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissingandcrying/pseuds/kissingandcrying
Summary: Seraphina’s winding her finger in circles above her cup of coffee. The small, wooden stirring stick is moving lazily beneath it. She fixes Graves with a look and says, “Goldstein seems convinced that the case is what Scamander uses to transport his magical creatures in.”“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t seem too much of a stretch. He’s...” and with a quick roll of his eyes skywards in search of a more appropriate word, says, “unconventional.”A.K.A - Mr. Scamander runs an old zoo for magical creatures in New York. MACUSA's very best is sent to clear up its issues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First: Disclaimer - I know Graves’ name is Percival, but Graves is so much easier for me to write. I started by writing Percival, and then I read other fiction calling him Graves and it fits his personality much better, so I went with it. Second - I can't find any fiction of these two. C'mon - Newt/Percival | Scamander/Graves - I can't be the only one who saw that interrogation scene and thought 'okay daddy, tear it the fuck up in that suit, and then help newt out a little bit'. I guess that's just how my mind works. When I told my friend (on here -queenofosm) my struggle, she said 'be the fic you want to see in the world', so here we are! As far as I can see, the first Scamander/Graves fic (granted, the movie came out yesterday, so I'm not overly surprised. Maybe I should give it a week and then look for some, because I wanna read it as much as I wanna write it).

 

 

Timid. Shy. Awkward.

Graves could probably produce a collage of adjectives to describe Mr. Scamander's personality, all grabbed from the first time he’d met him; but when he’s asked by the president to do it, he doesn’t use a one of them. Instead he says, “The… _strange_ man with the briefcase.”

It’s not untrue. Newt is probably the strangest human being he’s ever met (and he’s worked for MACUSA since his younger years, crawling up out of his auror bearings to become head of magical law enforcement so that’s saying quite a bit), but there isn’t a more appropriate word to describe the wizard that stumbles around New York like he’s not actually sure how he’s gotten there or why the hell he owns a zoo there.

Seraphina’s winding her finger in circles above her cup of coffee. The small, wooden stirring stick is moving lazily beneath it. She fixes Graves with a look and says, “Goldstein seems convinced that the case is what Scamander uses to transport his magical creatures in.”

“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t seem too much of a stretch. He’s...” and with a quick roll of his eyes skywards in search of a more appropriate word, says, “unconventional.”

“Well whatever he is, the man’s permits need redone,” She remembers. “Go and serve him the papers - tell him to come in and document every creature he has in his care.”

As head of Magical law enforcement, Graves’ first thought is to argue that there are more pressing concerns to take care of. He’s spent years qualifying himself to do a lot more than document beasts and the shy little wizards that take care of them. But one scathing look from Picquery helps him up out of his seat with a quick, “Of course. Yep. Right away.”

He may have spent years boosting his authoritarial ego, but there’s not a thought in the world that scares him more than going against the madam president.

 

* * *

 

The thing about New York streets is that they have always been, and will likely always be, the most congested, irritating way to travel. Graves remembers this the second he steps outside with his hands in the pockets of his thick, black coat, and he's surrounded by shrieking no-majs and their satanic little offspring.

It’s chilly. The winter air has been descending upon the city for weeks, but the frost and bite of the temperature is only just catching up with them so it’s noticeably frigid. It’s already turning out to be a fairly crap day. Graves gives his collar a little tug to keep the wind from kissing the back of his neck and freezing him, keeps that from becoming another pile of shit to deal with, and then sets off to take care of the beast keeper.

The zoo, which might be better classified as a reserve for magical creatures, is only a few blocks from headquarters. It's cloaked on all sides by the native New York architecture as well as a really potent charm, and accessible via a small alleyway beside some local loan establishment. It’s popularity is limited to older magicians and so Graves isn’t surprised to find himself passing a few as he skirts his way up between the grimy walls of the loan building and the bakery on the other side.

Getting through the brick requires a quick tap of his wand on the wall, and then he’s stepping through into another darkened alley.

He immediately notices the smell of rain. It feels like a sauna but when he looks up above himself the sky is as clear as it was when he'd walked the streets, and there are no noticeable barriers around him. New York hasn’t seen rain in months - instead it’s been assaulted by a cold front that's blessed them with the occasional snow and otherwise bitter cold. This is the reason why when he starts walking and one of his feet lands in a puddle that soaks him through to his ankles, he’s not sure what to make of it. It’s certainly not something he’d been expecting.

“Christ almighty.” He whispers to himself, arms up as if steadying himself might help his feet dry. He trudges out of the puddle and then waves his wand down at his shoes to see if he can get some of the water off. “Why in the hell are there puddles?”

“That’ll have to do with the atmosphere overhead.”

“There shouldn’t _be_ a different atmosphere overhead,” Graves says shortly, looking up to see who’s spoken to him. He has a bone-deep feeling he knows who it is before he ever looks. Something about the innocuously clever presentation of the information - the person’s gaiety at being able to share knowledge about _something_. It could only be Newt Scamander. Nobody else in New York is that happy to be smart. “It shouldn’t be raining.”

“It didn’t rain. The concealment charm is trapping the heat, and it’s melting the snow from last night,” Newt admits. He’s apprehensive as usual, hand stiffly by his side as he’s holding his wand, and the other hand in the pocket of his strangely oversized blue coat. He’s dwarfed by the thing which makes him look smaller and more fragile than he actually is. Graves takes a deep breath.

“Have you gotten any new beasts?” Graves asks politely, cutting straight to the chase. He keeps working on drying his shoes, the aggravating chant of _Tergeo, Tergeo, Tergeo_ repeating itself. It’s hard to focus on the spell and clean himself when, in answer, Newt’s clearing his throat and then shifting his way back and forth between his feet. He gives it a second and then without looking up, says, “Alright. So that’s probably a ‘yes’.”

“I may have one or two, but they’re harmless.”

“Harmless don’t matter if they’re forbidden, Scamander. What are they?”

When there isn’t an answer, Graves looks up at Newt and repeats the question slowly. He’s getting anxiety waiting for the man to tell him how illegal they are this time.

“Just… Just a few golden snidges.”

“Golden snidges?” Graves asks. “And that’s all?”

“A chimaera, a hinkypunk, and a few imps." He amends. 

Newt’s only half way through the list when Graves bemoans the additions. Though none are overtly dangerous, they’re all highly illegal - and the paperwork is bound to be tedious. He doesn’t even want to think about it. He pockets his wand and says with a level of exasperation _usually_ reserved for the underage wizards they keep pulling in, “I’m gonna have to have someone come and collect them. You need to make sure the ones that can stay are documented. We’ve been over this.”

Newt’s crestfallen look is immediate. He says, “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“No.” Graves says, cutting him off. He’s not even _in_ the damn zoo, and he’s just found out that there are four types of unregistered creatures behind the gates. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with this today. He’s fairly certain he’s been taken off of a high profile case from the Improper Use of Magic department for it, and so he’s stuck sitting here with a man who consistently smuggles four - three... two, sometimes one legged creatures into New York from around the world. The trade off isn’t fair _or_ equal. He’s a man of the people - head of magical law enforcement - descended from one of the original twelve American aurors. This isn’t what he should be doing.

“People still hunt snidges. They’ll be in danger if I don’t-”

“ _Scamander._ ” Graves says. “Where are they?”

The man looks like he’s spent all day fighting with the very beasts Graves is discussing. His fringe is pushed back just a bit off of his head, waves of his naturally sandy-brown hair the only thing keeping it from looking too ridiculous, and there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek. If he’d look anywhere but his feet for more than five seconds, his impossibly green eyes would be piercing, anxious, uneasy, because if there’s one thing Graves knows sets Newt off, it’s the notion of anybody messing with his babies.

“Are they in there?” Graves helps, gesturing over the man’s shoulder to the cracked open gates of his reservation. “Have you already taken them out?”

“They’re happy here.”

Graves just shakes his head and starts walking towards Newt so that he can follow him to the beasts. “Not what I asked. Lead the way.”

Newt hesitates for a second, and then he flicks his wand towards Graves’ shoes and mutters, _“Impervius_ ”. There’s the feeling of warmth over Graves’ feet, and then Newt is putting the wand away in his pocket and heading towards the gates of his zoo.

 

* * *

 

Newt doesn’t talk much. He never has, all of the times that Graves has met him (which admittedly isn’t _too many_ , but just enough). He’s got the strange suspect quality that makes you want to check his bags. He's also the type of person you quickly learn, never does anything morally wrong - just completely and highly illegal.

He’s not a bad guy. He just really, really likes to help out creatures.

This is depressingly clear when Newt _does_ speak again for the first time, still facing forward, but occasionally tilting his head towards the space over his shoulder where Graves is walking. “I found a cat yesterday.”

“An actual cat? Not a modified cat, right?”

“Yes. An actual cat. It’d been half starved and so I found a can of sardines to feed her.”

“You should get more cats,” Graves jokes, though he’s absolutely serious. More domestic felines will save him the trouble of coming down here every month. “Stop picking up guests from the rest of the world and keeping them in ‘hotel du newt’ here.”

The joke goes right over Newt’s head, and instead he shuts back up until they get to the hinkypunks. It’s been a long time since Graves has seen one, and even then it was in the context of a book, not face to face. It doesn’t have it’s lantern, but the shape of the creature is quite clear - with it’s one whispy leg trailed down low beneath it, and the rest of it’s body looking like a cloud of smoke.

“They are sentient, you know.” Newt says quietly, almost as soon as he sees it. “It has to be as dark as possible for them.”

Graves gives him a second before adding, “If I recall correctly, they trap people. Throw fire at them.”

“If they have the lantern, they might. I’ve taken the lantern so now they’re quite docile.”

Every word that comes out of Newt’s mouth is another line on the vein of Graves’ forehead. He holds his temple to stave off the incoming migraine. Newt has been caring for _h_ _inkypunks_ , and there are snidges, and imps, and chimaera. Last month it was only jobberknolls. It’s almost staggering how quickly Newt manages to hoard all of these things.

“They’re not beasts,” Newt struggles to clarify. “They’re… spirits, but I happened upon them in Southern England and I… I thought that they were fascinating.”

When Newt finally does look at him, it’s briefly - only a second. Then he’s turning away with a soft smile on his face, once again facing the glorified smoke cloud as if it’s done something phenomenal by just existing. Graves sighs and wipes his face down, aggravated by his duty and the people it leads him to.

It’s clear that he has two decisions, because despite how happy Newt looks in the company of these spirits or beasts or _whatever_ , he’s clearly breaking about ten laws to do it. One is that Graves has to apparate back to MACUSA’s edifice with Scamander in tow, explain that the beasts are still here and need to be picked up, and that then he’ll have naught more to do with it. Two is that he could have Scamander pack the beasts (and spirit) up, and then he could apparate back to MACUSA with beasts _and_ Scamander in tow. Kill two birds with one stone.

Newt's probably going to be gloomy either way. He’s probably going to mourn the decision, and then spend an evening sniffling from his cell, occasionally reminding the guard outside that the beasts and creatures have feelings, and they deserve to be taken care of. He’s probably _actually_ going to make Graves feel like shit for taking him in.

No matter the course of action, it’s going to be a long trip, and Graves isn’t looking forward to any of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short introduction, I'm afraid. But I've found that if I make chapters too long, I'm less likely to finish them. This is a first time fic - it will just be smut in the end, so keep that in mind. There's not really any definitive storyline here. Newt gets arrested, gets shoved into a cell and somehow talks his way out of it, heads home with Graves, makes (probably bad) decisions, and that's it. I'm over at litindecency.tumblr.com (it's a sideblog, so I'll follow you back on my main) - you can come visit me there!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about how Porpentina literally turned Scamander in, almost got them both killed, and he forgave her so easily. That’ll be the hufflepuff patience and kindness that everyone admires, I think. Cause I would've yelled at her. God, I can’t get over how cute Newt is. I love it. Hence, why he's such a little bean in this story.

 

Graves truly believes that Newt Scamander is as maverick as they come. But if there were one person who could make him challenge the notion, it’d be Porpentina Goldstein. She walks too fast, she talks too much, and sometimes she carries stacks of books that tower higher than her head. It's a small solace that she doesn't harbor creatures that are bigger than some of New York's finest skyscrapers.

She greets the both of them as they arrive at headquarters. They’re nudging their way _into_ the building while everyone is seemingly going _out_ , so the gauge of Graves’ annoyance is already crawling painfully high when he hears her calling, “Mr. Scamander!”

“Porpentina, we have to take care of something immediate. We don’t have time to stop.” Graves tells her, carrying on his way even as she's holding onto her hat running to them.

“I can come with.” Porpentina suggests. “I can help you take care of this.”

“No,” Graves responds as mildly as he can. Last he’d checked, Porpentina’s curiosity about the case had been what’d sparked the sudden revival of interest in Newt’s activities. “I have to take him to Regulation and Control. One auror is more than enough.”

“Yes, I’m sorry Porpentina.” Newt says kindly. He’s smiling at her, strangely enough, something that Graves didn’t know the man did unless boasting about his collection of minacious creatures. He has to double-take to make sure that the wide, happy smile is actually a wide, happy smile and not some cry for help. “I’m afraid I’ve made another mess of this one. I have to go and clear it up.”

Porpentina looks at her feet despondently and sighs. “Will he be in a lot of trouble?”

“I’ll talk to Maggie, see what we can do to keep him out of a cell.” Graves answers. The ministry’s job has never been to fill up their prison with gardeners and magizookeepers; they likely won’t start now. But of course that goes without saying that they can’t protect a population when they’re not made aware of potential threats, which is exactly what Scamander’s “children” are. Dangerous. Not purposefully so, but so nonetheless. He still has every intention of arguing for Scamander’s keeping his reserve and maintaining his care licensure, but first they have to _get_ to Regulation and Control, something that won’t happen with Porpentina clinging to their coattails. “If you’ll excuse us, Goldstein. The quicker we get this over with, the sooner we’ll know what’s going on.”

Before she can bog them down with more questions, Graves nods his head over his shoulder and starts his way back up the staircase. He can hear a mumbled goodbye, and then the thudding of Scamander’s boots trailing along behind him, quickly trying to catch up.

The area in front of the lift is empty, but the lift isn't available yet. When Newt catches up with him and notices that they won't immediately be climbing onto it, he says, “You haven’t put me in cuffs this time.”

“You wouldn’t have wrists left if I put cuffs on you every time I bought you in here.” Graves responds. He peeks up into the empty space behind the golden scissor gates, looking for the lift. “Would you prefer to be in cuffs?”

“No.” Newt says. “I’ve never liked them much.”

“Not many people do.” Graves says, looking over at him. Newt’s standing quite close to the gates himself, peering at the space beyond it as if the lift might suddenly show up. When a second passes and they’re flanked on all sides by wizards and witches who are just coming in, Newt looks over at Graves for just a second and blinks. It's noncommittal and completely unreadable, so Graves sighs and slips his hands into his coat pockets, turning forward again and saying, “You’re an interesting man, Mr. Scamander.”

 

* * *

 

If Percival were to say that MACUSA would sink without him running between departments, patching up the miscommunications and inconsistencies, he wouldn’t be lying. It wouldn’t be a facet of a haughty personality _or_ an opportunity to boast. It would be the honest to god truth. The Magical Congress of the United States of America couldn’t function properly without him.

He’s outside of Maggie’s office, one arm guiding Newt right to her door, when his pocket starts to burn. It’s some new-age communication system that the president’s been trying - casting Protean charms on pocket items that burn or twitch when he’s being summoned to her office. As such, since it’s inception, his pocket has almost caught fire twice and he’s been vibrated against more times than he can count.

Graves knocks on Maggie’s door as hard as he can. It opens with a slow creak of the hinges to reveal her sitting lazily at her desk, sipping from a cup. Graves walks Newt on through the door and deposits him on the rug in the middle of her room, the only decorative piece in her working space. It's all very sterile otherwise. Dry and dull - a bit like Maggie before she's had her coffee.

Without preamble he says, “I’m being summoned. I have to go.”

“I thought you were playing ambassador, Percy?” Maggie drawls, cup still against her lips. When she takes another sip it’s obnoxiously loud.

“Percival.” Graves corrects mildly. “And I intend to. But I have to prioritize, and I expect you to do your job by giving Mr. Scamander here a fair opportunity to explain himself before trial.”

“What’s for explainin’?” Maggie asks. “He got caught again.”

“And each time he gets caught, he gets another opportunity to explain himself.” Graves reminds her. He’s irritated that he even has to say this sort of thing to her. Another instance of his expectations misaligning with the reality of the situation, which is that occasionally emotions overturn the foundations of their work. He can’t allow it to happen under his nose and he can’t allow it to happen to a man like Newt, whose biggest transgression is hoarding potentially dangerous creatures and calling himself their ‘mummy’. His pocket twitches again before going warm enough to burn through the three layers of clothing he’s wearing. He aggravatedly pulls his coat away from his leg so that it won’t leave a mark on him. “I want to see the reports for this case when I return.”

“Of course.” Maggie says, and her accent is thick, but the billow of steam running under her nose from her cup is thicker. She takes another sip and raises her eyebrows.

He shakes his head and then turns back out, trying not to feel too bad for leaving Newt in the office by himself.

 

* * *

 

There is a reason that Graves is known as “powerful” by his colleagues. It isn’t necessarily his position as director that grants him the title, or his encyclopedic knowledge of wizarding _and_ no-maj laws alike, or even his ability to cast spells sans a wand or any other magically channeled item - but a combination of all three and, included, his ability to use them for the betterment of wizardkind.

When he first steps back into Picquery’s office, he knows that the scale of what he’s been summoned for is quite large. It’s confirmed by Maximus only a minute later who tells him that 'a wizard' has managed to slaughter a no-maj family of eight over rights to an _item_ (thusfar unknown). It’s an event that was viewed by no less than seventeen other muggles. 

It’s a headache on top of the migraine that’s been cooking in his skull since morning. He does his duty first, always, but he deplores running the gamut of his skills for morally corrupt wizards and the consequences of their actions.

It takes the remainder of the day to clean up the mess. He heads back to MACUSA’s headquarters only after he’s located the witnesses and their plus one of information, then overseen the capture of the 'wizard' responsible (in this case completely incorrect, as it was three young males with little left to lose, and who had steadfastly challenged him in a duel that’d caused him no more trouble than a quick stint of impatience). It’s 2:00 a.m., he’s exhausted, and he’s using the last of his energy to tug one of the delinquents into the building. It’s not that he’s forgotten about Newt. He could never, not when the man so adamantly and regularly causes him grief, but he’s certainly distracted enough that when he gets down to the holding cells beneath the building, he’s shocked to see him down there.

His most immediate mental processes work on understanding _why_ Newt’s been shoved down here. Yes, he did break the law, that much Graves understands - and yes, he’s done it before, that much Graves is willing to admit to. But he sees the man sitting on his coat on the floor with his legs drawn up to his chest and his head leaned back against the wall. Despite the lack of coat, he’s still swamped by his suit jacket and the waistcoat beneath it. He’s watching Graves curiously from beneath his drooped eyelids. There is little candlelight down here, but there's enough to show how glassy and swollen his eyes are, how disheartened he actually looks. His fingers are nervously drumming on his kneecaps. 

They’re looking at each other for long enough that Maximus bumps into Graves’ back and jogs both him and the offender in his grip.

“Maximus,” Graves says immediately, turning to look over his shoulder. “Unlock this cell.”

“Sir?”

“ _U_ _nlock the cell.”_ Graves repeats. “Get him out and take him to my office.”

“You mean Newt?” Maximus asks.

“Yes. Take him out.”

Behind them, a third auror is tromping down the stairs with his own criminal. He misses the entire exchange, but goes along with it when he’s handed Maximus’ culprit so that the man can unlock Newt's cell.

 

* * *

 

“I’m a Hufflepuff,” is probably the strangest greeting Graves has ever heard. He walks into his office on limbs that feel like jelly, and he unwraps his scarf from around his neck. There’s a window directly behind his desk that shows it’s _snowing_ outside again, which would be lovely if he weren’t aware of how biting the cold likely is because of it.

“I take it that’s a Magizoology word.” He answers, knowing damn well what a Hufflepuff is but opting to open up conversation instead.

“No.” Newt says. “It’s a Hogwarts house.”

“Ah.” Graves responds. He drops down into his chair with his coat still on and rubs his face to try and put some life back into himself. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”

“What can I say?” Newt asks him. He’s leaned ever so slightly forward in his chair and he only peeks up at Graves between responses. His hair is at all angles on his head in a disorganized mess that manages to fit his personality perfectly. Graves just stares for a minute to try and find out how it works. “My first year at Hogwarts, I was told that that’s why I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

Newt doesn’t provide an answer which means that Graves is stuck filling in the blanks by himself. Newt just looks out of one of the windows beside himself. It’s likely because the window behind Graves puts their line of sight too close to one another’s, and he’d like to not look at the auror for longer than necessary.

“What you do is highly illegal.” Graves says. He stops watching Newt and leans back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling. “The reason you’re here with me is because I just cleaned up a family of eight off the walls of some… run down building in Brooklyn.”

“I would never try to hurt anyone.” Newt says quietly.

“Another reason you’re here.” Graves says. “You don’t deserve to be locked up beside boys who turned a family to mush. You understand that there are rules and there are consequences, so I’m asking you to stop breaking them, because I'm the one that has to come and get you when you do.” As an aside, he adds, “You can’t save all of them, Scamander.”

“I don’t want to save all of them. Just some of them.”

“ _Damnit_ , Newt -” Graves spits, sitting upright. He’s suddenly upset again. He’s angry that the odds are, Newt will leave here having his beasts confiscated, and he’ll do everything in his power to get them back. It’ll be Graves’ duty to recollect him next month, lock him up, and take them again. He can’t allow this circlet of events to continue because eventually it ends in Newt getting convicted of a crime that puts him away for longer than he deserves. He collects himself. There's nothing he can do tonight. It's too late (or early). He takes a deep breath and says, “Listen, tonight you have to go somewhere. It’s either back to the cell or home with me. Your choice.”

“I can’t leave?”

“No. Not on your own. You broke the law and you and your creatures are currently in custody. You have to be under direct supervision of congress because of the charges against you. But I know you haven’t eaten since I grabbed you yesterday morning, and I don’t need you starving before your trial. I understand If you’re more comfortable downstairs. I can take you back.”

Newt seems almost vehemently against the idea. He shifts in his seat and says, “No, no. It’s alright. I would prefer to join you.”

“Then we oughta go, because it’s two in the morning and I don’t plan on staying awake much longer.”

It could be the sleep deprivation or the bone-deep exhaust fogging his actions. Graves doesn’t _mean_ to take Newt home. He’d never have done it if the stars hadn’t aligned and given him the day from hell. But upon forcing himself back to standing, and grabbing his scarf to loop it back around his neck, he can’t bring himself to care. He wants to eat and sleep and then tomorrow, convince Newt that perhaps creatures aren’t worth giving up your freedom for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy. :P


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Okay - a few things. First, some of these spells I’ve pulled from the Harry Potter Wiki, but i’m not entirely sure if they’re the appropriate spells, so please forgive me in advance. Second - I realize that writing 1920’s porn is a bit different than writing modern ‘spank me until my asscheeks are red and then feed me your cock’ type porn that I usually write. I decided to go with dry-humping for this fic because it seems a very neutral type of… first time thing for wizards like newt/graves and because 1920's, in-character sex would take a few more chapters before my confidence allowed me to write it!

 

Graves’ apartment is a humble little brick building on the lower east side of Manhattan. It’s quiet due to lack of tenants, and the surrounding lights haven’t been upkept by the city or any landlord since years before the man had moved in. The entire building is swathed (quite eerily) in the shadow of night.

“Watch your step,” Graves warns when they arrive outside of his door. “The top one’s broken.”

Newt still trips up the last step and falls into Graves’ back, pushing him into the front door, so the man turns around and offers Newt his hand in case he can’t see. Newt takes it and says, “I’m sorry, but don’t you have your wand?”

“I do.” Graves says. He opens the front door and then guides Newt through it before releasing him. “But using it when there’s a potential for no-maj to see is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy. My upstairs neighbor is a bit of a menace in that regard. I don’t use spells in the entryway… just in case.”

“No-majs must see magic all the time.” Newt guesses, sticking close to the sound of Graves’ heels and occasionally bumping into his back. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve seen wizards using all sorts of magic. It’s easier, I suppose, since many of you do it without your wands.”

“It takes more out of you.” Graves tells him. When he gets to his door, he does unlock it without the help of his wand (not to show off but because he can’t be bothered to look for the physical set of keys his no-maj landlord had handed him the first day he’d come in, and his wand is just a hard line in his pocket that he intends to leave alone). In the dark of the hallway it would be impossible for any neighbors to see the magic of Graves unlocking the door, so he doesn’t hesitate.

He only has a second to think of how his apartment looks before they’re both shuffling into it. There isn’t anything more irritating than inviting someone back to a dirty living space. It usually isn’t a problem for a man like Graves, whose guests are far and few between. Still, he feels irrationally defensive of his ‘neat and clean’ persona and bringing Newt back to an apartment where things are littered everywhere would ruin that.

There’s nary a hair out of place. Even the little furry one is sitting calmly in the windowsill, paying Graves and Newt no attention.

“You have a… cat.” Newt says. “I wasn’t aware you had any pets.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t seem the type.” The man continues. Honesty falls from his mouth like water and Graves isn't sure if that's a virtue or not.

“His name is Admetus.” Graves explains, quickly toeing off his shoes and then going for the buttons of his coat. “I found him outside last winter and offered him a space up here. Never intended to keep him, but I haven’t found a way to get rid of him yet. He’s not very nice, so pet at your own risk,” and then with a quick shake of his head, says quietly, “God, who am I speaking to? The man with a briefcase full of biting critters.”

Newt has already migrated to the window and is reaching out by the time Graves takes his coat off. It’s astounding how alluring creatures are to Newt. It doesn’t seem possible for him to stay away if he sees something that purrs or growls or even hisses at you. He gravitates towards it regardless, and offers it his hand like it’s an old friend - a very _dangerous_ action that Graves still can’t find it in himself to justify.

“Hello Admetus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Newt says.

As expected, the cat blinks once at his extended hand and then goes back to looking out the window. Newt doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he turns back to Graves and smiles fiercely. “I think he likes me.”

“You still have fingers, so I’d have to agree.” Graves says. He’s down to his waistcoat and his trousers, ready to make something quick and then sleep away the impossibly long day. It dawns on him briefly that the sleeping arrangements need to be adjusted, but then his mind jumps to more important things, like how quickly he can cook, and then how much time he has left before he has to be back at the Woolworth.

 

* * *

  

“So how many more times do you plan on getting arrested, Scamander?”

Ten points to Graves for what is likely the most awkward table talk in the history of mankind, and twenty to Newt who responds to it with undying honesty.

“Three more times.”

“Not the answer I was expecting.” Graves sighs. “Look. I have a job to do, and it requires focus and availability. I spent long nights up in my dorm at Ilvermorny preparing myself for the worst of wizardkind and instead I find myself once a month, dealing with a zookeeper and his exotic creatures. Does that sound like an education well spent?”

“Yes, if you spend the rest of the month still helping deal with the worst of wizardkind.”

Admetus has found his way to the table looking for scraps. He yowls before Graves can admonish Newt further for his career choices, begging for the food that Graves usually gives him.

“You keep your own creatures.” Newt says quietly. He’s looking at Graves in a very curious manner, playing with his fork and not eating his food. “And I’ve not once been prosecuted to the full extent of the law, which perhaps indicates that you… have a soft spot for them.”

Graves goes sullenly. He looks at Newt’s pallid complexion - likely from the lack of food and the harrowing day, and considers the notion that he _deals_ with Newt because deep down he cares for the creatures the man keeps in his zoo. It’s a far stretch from the truth, but there must be some curiosity that Graves is overlooking since he, indeed, keeps bringing this situation upon himself. If Newt were to be prosecuted according to his crimes and the amount of times he’d done them, he’d never see the outside of a cell - and yet that’s not something that Graves would ever actively pursue.

“No, it’s more likely…” Graves starts in defense, just as Admetus reaches out and digs his nails into the leg of his trousers, suddenly fed up with the lack of attention.

Graves yelps and knocks the cat away from him. When he looks up, Newt is smiling. 

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry, this is a terrible imposition, but might I use your bath? Before you came and collected me, I was… cleaning one of the exhibits.”

Graves is running between rooms with his arms full of blankets, trying to figure out the logistics of the sleeping arrangements. It’s four in the morning, he’s near delirious, and he’s just slightly aggravated (though at this point it seems to be more a personality flaw than a situational response).

“You want to take one now?” Graves huffs, dropping his pile on the floor and fixing Newt with a slight raise of his eyebrows. “Don’t plan on getting any sleep?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be able to.” Newt says.

It takes a moment for Graves to recognize the look on the man’s face as a dejected one. Newt’s been going between fond little glances at Admetus as he runs excitedly between rooms, and dispirited sighs otherwise. He’s been playing with his hands on and off, occasionally patting his breast pocket, and that’s when Graves realizes that he never took off his coat. It’s a bit sad to see the man’s gaze shifting restlessly to the only creature he’s been left with - one that’s not even his.

“I can get you a bath. Just… settle in a bit, okay? You’ve got a long day tomorrow.” As Graves passes him, he tugs on Newt’s collar and says, “And you might want to start with the coat.”

Graves is one of the lucky few New Yorkers to have a working porcelain tub. He muffles the sound of the running water by muttering a few incantations, and then lets it fill on it’s own. The water is a good, relaxing temperature, and for every inch it fills the tub, Graves sticks his hand down in it to make sure that it won’t aggravate Newt’s brittle disposition.

Until it had been earlier mentioned, Graves hadn’t noticed he’d been making a habit of Newt’s company. He'd been so exasperated by the constant reminder to Picquery about who the man was and why,  _yet again_ , he was being investigated. Strange that on the evening (or morning) of another trial for the man, it should be pointed out.

He actively decides to ignore it as his fingers dance along the bottom of the tub.

 

* * *

 

Graves can’t function on zero sleep. He takes a bath knowing it’ll keep him up for another hour. At some point, he’s so swivel-eyed that his magic starts doing absurd things. Emptying Newt’s bath turns into drowning the entire room, and then filling it back up turns into suffocating himself with bubbles. By the end of it, he sits angrily in the warm bath water with his legs stretched out in front of him, half unconscious from the primitive state the water temperature has put him in.

But then he hears a noise. It’s a loud thud followed by the yowling of a cat, and then there’s the distraught yell of one Newt Scamander.

Graves clammers his way out of the bathtub, slipping in the base and then tripping over the side of it. His towel is within reach and so he yanks it from the bar it’s draped over and ties it off around his waist before scuttling out of the bathroom and heading for his room.

“I’m sorry.”

If only Newt would _stop apologizing._ Graves enters his bedroom to find the man on the floor surrounded by dirt, and being harassed by Admetus. Newt’s not dressed. He’s still wrapped in an obscenely large towel, brown hair curling slightly and plastering itself to his forehead. When he looks up at Graves, he makes such an arresting image that Graves almost overlooks the distress on his face.

“What happened?” Graves asks.

“Admetus.” Newt says. His eyes are red. Graves also suspects that the damp reflection of skin beneath them has little to do with the shower and more to do with Newt’s current predicament. “I wanted to play with him, but I think that he’s tired of me at this point.”

“It’s not you.” Graves corrects immediately. “He’s not a nice cat. I told you to be careful.”

Getting the dirt off of the floor is easy. Graves only needs to wave his hands and mumble _scourgify_ and it lifts itself. A few stray clumps land in Newt’s hair, but the rest is pushed aside and dropped back into the flowerpot, out of the way.

Graves walks to Newt's side so that he can help him up off the floor, and because he can't stop thinking about it, he says, “Newt I… appreciate you wanting to care for all of these things. Really. I do. But maybe it’s time to start thinking that not everything with a beating heart wants to love you. Sometimes it wants to hurt you too.”

“If I thought that way, I might be mistaken for an auror.” Newt says. He still takes Graves’ hand when it’s extended to him and allows himself to be hoisted up.

“That philosophy keeps me alive.” Graves argues.

“I'm not dead yet, am I?” Newt asks.

Graves looks at him closely. His eyes are shining a bit mischievously, though they’re still bloodshot to hell and he still looks one step away from breaking into tears.

“No. You're not.” Graves says after a moment, alarmed by Newt’s sudden confidence. 

Newt doesn’t make any effort to move. He looks at Graves while he’s got him close, and his eyes bounce from from his nose to his lips, and then glance over his cheeks before finally landing on his hair. He doesn’t ask to reach up and nudge some of it back into its usual mold, he just does it, and Graves, tired from a long day of doing too much, has to physically stop himself from collapsing. 

There's a moment where neither of them says a thing. Newt just runs his fingers through Graves' hair under the guise of taming it, and Graves allows it because he's  _tired_ damnit, and it feels so good to be touched.

But, being the responsible man that he is, Graves eventually says, “You’re expected at the ministry tomorrow. We should try and get some rest.”

Newt startles and then steps back. His cheeks go pink and he looks down at his feet as he’s wont to do when he’s embarrassed.

So far, the morning is going splendidly.

 

* * *

 

Graves had met Newt a year ago.

He’d been a strange man with a leather briefcase then, and he’s still very much a strange man with a leather briefcase now. But apparently, he’s also a strange man with sandy brown hair that curls when it’s wet, and whose eyes are impossibly large and emotive when he (occasionally) looks at you.

Graves has never been more hesitant to uphold the law.

He sleeps lying on his side away from Newt with the blanket pulled close, because of all things he’s agreed to (whether purposefully or not) this is likely the _least_ professional.

Newt had made the suggestion that they both fit on the bed and Graves had blindly followed. The argument had been that with the limited amount of time before sunrise and subsequently, Newt’s trial, there was no need to waste time trying to create a bed out of just _anything_ when one with enough surface area was available to the both of them. It was a good idea in principle because Graves was, and still is, running on irrationality and incoherence and perhaps three hours of sleep, but adopting the principle creates issues. There’s body heat that Graves isn’t used to. There’s a dip in the mattress behind him that makes him hyper aware of his own space. There’s the soft sound of someone else breathing and the occasional sniffle which is so foreign to him.

He’s a man with a moral compass, and that’s the reason he rolls over and asks, “Are you crying again?”

“Yes.” Newt croaks before he sobs, “I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Graves sighs. “First, could you stop apologizing? It’s too early in the morning for that.”

“You seem to think that I can just _stop_ being Newt whenever I feel like it. Stop caring for my beasts, stop apologizing all of the time, stop looking away. I can’t do any of these things.” Newt tells him. “Have you ever tried giving yourself the same advice? Have you ever tried not being Percival Graves? I miss Pickett and I can’t _unmiss_ him.”

“The Bowtruckle.” Graves says.

“The Bowtruckle.” Newt confirms. More quietly, he asks, “Is it so hard to believe that I love them? I don't mean to...”

Graves can’t see much in the dark of the room. He’s facing Newt’s back and reaching out to touch it seems the right thing to do. He can feel the warmth of the man’s skin beneath his palm, the jitter of his body vibrating beneath it when he starts to cry again. He knows neither of them will get to sleep like this.

“There are always consequences. I'm sorry that yours are so hard on you.” Graves says quietly.

“Whatever I've done, _they_ don't deserve this.” Newt sobs into his pillow.

“Those creatures are lucky to have you, for however long they have you.” Graves says. He encourages Newt to turn around so that he can see him by pulling on his shoulder until he rolls over and right into Graves’ arms.

It would be silly for Graves to say what he’s actually thinking, given who he is, but the honest truth is that Newt’s got a spell like quality that pulls every inch of Graves’ lonely, frigid little soul in. He does so little inherently bad, and he’s such an enigma otherwise. Graves wants to make him feel better, but he can’t see Newt well enough in the darkness of the room to find out if what he’s doing now is working.

“I can only do so much, but I’ll do what I can to make sure that those who can't stay go somewhere... nice.” Graves tells him.

He’s a powerful man, and he’s almost never applied that power to personal reason. He thinks about the family that’d just yesterday been brutalized, the wizards sitting beneath the Woolworth building that _he’d_ arrested, and then he compares it to the wizard who’s burrowing himself up against Graves’ chest, and whose curly brown hair is tickling the underside of his nose, whose only desire is to provide for discarded beasts.

There is a reason that he’s never pressed for a full conviction. He’ll admit to having ignored a large part of Newt’s activities because of his own pompous attitude, and the idea that he was made for better, more barbaric cases. But truth be told, Newt’s been nothing but a buffer for the worst wizards Graves has come across, and without him and his maddening case, Graves might have long since lost his mind.

His looking down at Newt and feeling defensive isn’t the work of one day. He's long since been accidentally falling under a different kind of magic.

“I’ve never been this close to anyone before.” Newt says, looking up at him in a room that's blessed by so little light, they've been reduced to shades of black and white.

“No?”

“Only creatures.” Newt whispers. “Though I’m much fonder of this.”

Graves can feel the mutinous call of his isolation begging him to do something. He watches the way that Newt’s eyes flutter, and the way his mouth falls open just a bit when Graves tugs them more closely together. He’s more responsive now than Graves has ever seen him, and even in the darkness his cheeks change shades of gray. He’s flustered.

Graves takes a chance. He reaches up and cradles Newt’s face, using the pad of his thumb to swipe off any excess tears. Newt sighs into it.

“Is this okay?” Graves asks.

Newt answers, “yes,” despite the question being for Graves, himself. An officer of the law whose intentions when inviting the man back had been nothing perverse, has every right to ask if this is okay. If it’s a stint of mania, a coping mechanism for his own day, or an opportunity, or if perhaps it's the climax of a relationship he'd never noticed forming. An attraction that he'd overlooked because of his own distractions with cases and burning pockets.

Newt leans in and bumps noses with him, lips hovering dangerously close but not touching. It’s so obvious that he spends his time with creatures, and the lack of understanding for basic human physicality is endearing in its own way.

“Is this how you treat all your creatures?” Graves asks quietly before throwing in the towel and closing the distance between them.

Newt goes almost comically stiff when their lips touch. His lips are warm and soft, and the breath from his nose that’s tickling Graves’ top lip is organic, but his body is rigid. This must be foreign to him. This isn’t the kind of affection he knows, and it’s not the kind of affection he’s ever been taught to give. Graves doesn’t press any place that isn’t lips on lips, though the urge to do so is beckoning. He waits for Newt to tilt his head, ever so slightly, and then he leans forward a bit more and breathes into it.

The kiss is simple. It leads to another, and another, and another, until Graves’ fingers are winding themselves in Newt’s slightly damp hair so that he can keep them together, and then encouraging him to open his mouth by licking out at his bottom lip.

Newt responds unpredictably.

He breathes, “Oh,” and then titters quietly between kisses, “Howard does that when he’s hungry.”

Graves doesn't want to know which creature Howard is, but it's fitting, considering their current circumstances. He would absolutely describe himself as hungry. Famished, even.

He hums and presses Newt back down onto his pillow, using his weight and leverage to crawl carefully between his legs. The man’s in a sleepshirt Graves had found in his armoire (the only one, hence his own dressing in a simple two-piece union suit), and it’s easy to reach between their bodies and feel how warm his skin is underneath the thin, cotton layer of it. Newt makes a shocked little noise when he feels Graves’ exploring, the man’s fingertips dancing along his body because they can. It must be the first time anyone’s ever touched him without the intent of arrest or imprisonment, and Newt reacts like he’s not sure how to handle it.

Graves wants to neglect the stiffening line of Newt’s cock, which is slowly tenting the shirt it's under. But his fingers accidentally skim the head and a firework of arousal goes off in him. He needs to touch. He stops kissing Newt long enough to look down between them.

“Is this alright?” Graves asks. His head is bowed, considering what little of Newt’s body he can see in the darkness of the room. Newt hesitates, and then leans in and kisses the top of Graves’ head. He soon after runs his fingers through the man’s hair to push it back into behaving. It's a positive response from a man who doesn't say nearly enough.

Graves wraps his hand around Newt’s cock, cotton still kissing the hot skin as he grips it firmly. The first pump he gives it is experimental, and then the next few tugs are because the feel of it in his hand is fascinating. He doesn't notice that he's been steadily pumping Newt's cock through his clothes until the man huffs under his breath, hand shooting between their bodies to stop him. When Graves looks up at him, he is quite lost. His cheeks are still visibly reddened (or as red as can be seen, given the circumstances), and his breath is caught in his throat.

“It’s alright.” Graves says. It’s a parody of his earlier question - solace for a man who’s out of his element and whose erotic experiences are likely limited to an accidental brush of his hand against his groin as he’s doing household chores.

Graves makes a decision. One that resumes his earlier kisses and then guides them to one another, until their bodies are pressed flush against one another’s. Newt wraps his arms around Graves’ back and lets him lead, turning away from him only when Graves lines their bodies up, presses their hard lengths together, and rolls his hips.

Newt moans softly against his lips and then turns his head like he’s overwhelmed by the sensation. Graves understands it completely. He feels like he’s just been electrocuted. He feels desperate, on a precipice that he's in no way prepared to fall from. His body is tingling, and the way that Newt is clinging to him, the way his eyes have flitted closed, and the way his lips are parted just enough for his breathy little responses to be audible, are all feeding into his feral inclinations.

Newt’s legs fall open more, leaving them spread impossibly wide, and Graves steadies himself on his forearms, boxing Newt in so that when the man feels too staggered and he goes searching for something to ground him, Graves' lips will be right there.

There is a rhythm, precise and a little bit rough. Graves rolls his hips and fucks himself against Newt’s body in slow, docile movements. He waits for Newt to get that desperate grip on his shoulder, that aggravated jerk of his own hips in an attempt to chase the pressure that's teasing his release, and then waits for him to whisper “P-please…” before he bears down on him and traps the man's cock between the weight of their moving bodies.

He would give anything up for the opportunity to do this again.

“Come on,” Graves growls, using an arm to guide Newt’s legs a bit closer to his body. It’s easier to grind down when he’s trapped between the man’s thighs. “Come on.”

Newt doesn’t look at him, but he calls out to him. His legs spring closed and then he locks his ankles around the small of Graves’ back, letting Graves rub up against him while soft, desperate groans leak from his mouth, and not a moment later he says, “ _Oh_ ,” and goes stiff, fingers pressing angry indentations into the skin beneath Graves' bedclothes.

Graves can feel it - the warm spread of Newt’s coming between them, and he drops his head to Newt’s shoulder and uses his body to get off. Too soon he can feel the toe-curling pull of his own release. All it takes is Newt parroting "come on" in his ear, and his own vision goes blessedly white. 

 

* * *

 

Three hours of sleep isn’t enough.

Graves wakes up on the chest of a man whose eyes probably never really closed. Newt’s staring up at the ceiling, and he’s polite enough to ignore the weight of Graves on his chest.

“What time is it?” Graves asks. His voice is roughened from the few hours of sleep he’d gotten. His lower body is sweaty and disgusting, itchy. The bath last night was worth very little.

“I meet with the council today.” Newt says

“ _We_ meet with the council today.” Graves corrects. “Did you get any sleep?”

“An hour or so.”

“That’s not enough.” Graves sighs. “We have a few more hours. Why don’t you try and get some?”

When Newt looks down at him, the vision of him is illuminated by an early sunrise that Graves would've hated to experience. As it is, he's happy about it now because the man is devastating. 

Yes, timid. Shy. Awkward.

But also a collage of adjectives that describe Mr. Scamander's personality, many of which he's apparently attracted by, and which he’d never have known had he not been handed the less pressing concerns of Magical law enforcement.

He’d spend the remainder of the (already) long day making sure that by the end of it, Newt had three things. His creatures, another chance to make friends with Admetus, and an appropriate amount of shut-eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this short little story! I'm sorry I split what should've been a one-shot into a three-shot that's STILL the length of a one shot. Bahahaha. Thanks for all of the comments, and thanks for sticking with me! *Story has been spellchecked - woo! done with that!* Hopefully I can play around with these two a little bit more, but I do actually have to get started on my Reel Kingsman fic which is coming up soon, too! So let me know your thoughs/feelings if you'd like! I'm always down to chat on tumblr. HMU!

**Author's Note:**

> Short introduction, I'm afraid. But I've found that if I make chapters too long, I'm less likely to finish them. This is a first time fic - it will just be smut in the end, so keep that in mind. There's not really any definitive storyline here. Newt gets arrested, gets shoved into a cell and somehow gets out of it, heads home with Graves, makes (probably bad) decisions, and that's it. I'm over at litindecency.tumblr.com (it's a sideblog, so I'll follow you back on my main) - you can come visit me there!


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